Mirror Images, Book One
by wanderingchat
Summary: Not just a reflection of the 2004 movie, the Broadway play, or the Leroux novel just as a mirror refracts light and images when the glass is set a certain way, readers will find certain intriguing twists and turns to the original plot. Who wins? Who los


**Mirror Images Book One **

A Phantom of the Opera Story

by

Wanderingchat

**YE OLDE DISCLAIMER**

_This is a work of pure fiction. Any borrowing of lyrics, descriptions, names, places, and events is purely co-incidental, and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by ALW, the RUG, the descendents of Gaston LeRoux, Warner Brothers films, Etc., Etc., Etc., _

_**Prolouge**_

He waited, standing behind the mirror of Carlotta's dressing room, waiting for her to be alone. He had waited for this day for years, since the first day he'd sung the gypsy lullaby to her, and she had called him the Angel of Music. She had outperformed all his hopes for her this night, now he would reveal himself to her, and make her a part of his world at long last.

He knew the throngs of people who waited to congratulate her would eventually leave. He kept his patience. He waited this long, he could wait a little longer. He smiled, watching her fondly handle the red rose he'd left for her. The red rose with it's black ribbon. His signature sign that she had done well.

The door opened, a young man, a blond Adonis, entered bearing flowers for her. He called her "Little Lotte". She seemed glad to see him, and knew his name. Hadn't she said something to Meg Giry that afternoon that she and the new patron been childhood sweethearts? He had been too busy sabotaging Carlotta so that Christine could take her rightful place as the Opera's star for the new owners to pay attention to the patron. But he was ready to pay attention now.

'They are obviously very close, for not having seen each other since childhood," he murmured. "And he is **_very_** sure of himself, telling her to be ready in two minutes! We'll see about that!" He stalked from the mirror, using one of the many hidden passages to reach the outer hallway, waiting until he heard the Vicomte hurry from the dressing room.

He nodded slightly to Mme. Giry, who was keeping watch as he locked the door and gave her the key for safe keeping. She would see to it the door was unlocked later on, so that by morning it would be well known that the opera's new star was missing. He stalked back to the dressing room as the opera house began shutting down for the evening.

He was startled upon his return to find that Christine was no where in sight of the mirror. He wondered if he'd missed seeing her leave with the Vicomte. No, Mme Giry would have told him if that had been the case. He relaxed when he saw her emerge from behind the screen, tying the belt to her dressing gown. 'Good girl! Still, you need to be reminded not to disobey me!"

He opened the concealed panel in the mirror ever so slightly, so that just enough wind blew through it to cause the candles room to go out. The only light was now coming from a single oil lantern, whose flame danced in its hourglass covering.

"Insolent boy!" he roared. "This slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" Good, she is surprised and frightened. That's as it should be. "Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"

Christine begged him to understand her weakness, begged him to share with her the glory of his voice and presence. She wanted to know from HIM that she had pleased him with her performance. No rose this time would be enough. He'd ignored the same request made by her and Meg Giry, as he never intended for anyone but Christine and Mme. Giry to see him. But now, he would grant her request.

"Flattering child, " he replied, more gently. "You shall know me. See why in darkness I hide. Look in the mirror before you, I am there inside."

She turned to the mirror, and he lifted his torch to allow the light to reveal him. Part of the mirror still showed her reflection. And next to it, she saw him for the first time. It looked as if he were standing beside her!

"Come to the Angel of Music," he intoned hypnotically, crooning the phrase over and over. His hand appeared to her, as if coming out of the mirror. She touched it, and he gently drew her threw the opening.

**_This_** was the moment he'd anticipated for years. Let the fool out there shake the doorknob and knock till his knuckles bled! The hallucinogenic potion he'd used on the rose was taking effect, and Christine neither knew nor cared that her childhood friend was outside the door. If all went as planned, she would never care about the Vicomte again as thePhantom guided her to the boat that would take them to his underground lair.

_**The Best Laid Plans **_

Erik sat on the steps beside Christine, already regretting his angry outburst. He should have foreseen her curiosity, and not allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. He should have been more watchful when she came to stand beside him, and touched his face!

'How stupid of me!' he thought to himself, his shoulders slumped in dejection. 'She's just a child, and a curious one at that. I shouldn't have gotten so angry with her for wanting to see what lay behind the mask!' He sighed wearily, "Oh, Christine."

She was still lying where she'd fallen when he shoved her away, tears streaming down her face, the mask lying next to her. He wanted to reach out to her, comfort her, but he didn't dare. He didn't think he could handle seeing she shrink from him in fear of another outburst, and he KNEW he couldn't deal with being rejected again.

They sat a moment, each breathing heavily as if they'd run a marathon. Slowly, Christine picked up the mask, and raised herself to her knees so that she was closer to him. Wordlessly, she handed the mask over to him. He turned away from her to place it over the disfigured part of his face, and at that moment she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"Master, I'm so sorry," she whispered, "I –"

Erik tensed at the unexpected embrace, but thrilled that she would _willingly_ embrace him so soon after his harsh treatment of her. The words, however, chilled his heart. 'PITY? She feels only PITY for me!' He tried to remove her arms from around his neck, surprised that she didn't flinch from his touch. A low moan of despair escaped his lips as he strained to control his anger and hurt. 'I could've accepted anything else from her but PITY!' He nearly choked on his rage.

Christine felt his muscles tense under her hands, and her embrace tightened so that he wouldn't move away from her. "Master," she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. "Please listen to me. It's obvious that people have always responded to your looks by recoiling in fear and revulsion. That's why you've hidden yourself away from the world. It's hurt you terribly that I unmasked you. I'm sorry to have caused you so much pain. It's poor repayment for all you've given to me."

Erik couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'She doesn't feel pity? But what is it she does feel? An obligation to her teacher? A duty? Is THAT all I am to her?' He stopped trying to move from her embrace, accepting it for the apology it was, and reached one hand to touch the clasped hands that lay on top of his chest. Her hands were ice cold, and they trembled beneath his hand. He gave those hands what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

"Master, dare I ask your forgiveness?"

"Dare I ask _yours_ for my outrageous conduct?"

"But, I took from you what was not mine to take, " she replied. "You had every right to be mad at me. How can I not forgive you?"

"Then," he replied gently, "How can I not forgive YOU, child?" Did he imagine it, or did she flinch when he called her 'child'? "I had intended one day to share my disfigurement with you, but only when I felt you were ready." He added to himself 'Scaring you was NEVER my desire.' To frighten those ballet tarts, Buquet. and Carlotta was one thing he enjoyed. But he didn't want Christine to fear him. Ever.

He gently moved out of her embrace and stood up. Christine also stood and moved close to him again, laying one hand against the unmarred side of his face. His eyes burned into hers, searching for answers, but there were none readily available. He read confusion, but no fear. There was sympathy for him, yes, but it was the sympathy one feels for another who is hurting. There was regret, and perhaps, though he might have just been wishing, something else lurking farther within her.

How he longed to enfold her in his arms and hold her close to him, but he didn't dare do anything that would sever the very tenuous rapport they shared at this moment. He was also afraid to open himself up to further disappointment. He moved a few steps from her.

"It is part of a woman's nature to be curious, and you are no exception. I don't intend to make you my prisoner." He thought to himself, "How can I forgive you in one breath, yet keep you here out of fear you'll never willingly come back the next?'

Christine remained where he'd left her, the one hand still slightly raised as if he'd never moved from her. Disappointment showed in her face. "I deserved your anger, master. Father always told me I should ask before looking into other people's things. It was a lesson I should have learned." She dropped her hand to her side with a little sigh.

"Come, we must go," he responded. "Those fools who run my theater will be missing you."

She didn't reply; her expression begging him to let her stay. He wanted to succumb to that plea! He had dreamed for years of her sharing his lair with him, but keeping her with him was expecting too much of her too soon. If only she hadn't looked! But, it was too late. The emotional wounds his outburst inflicted were still fresh. In some ways, she was older than her years, but in others, she was still just a child, and he must work carefully to win her. He'd realized that much when she fainted at the sight of the mannequin that resembled her in the wedding dress.

Therefore, he motioned for her to the boat, being careful not to make a move to touch her, except to help her into the boat.

_**Revelations and Surprises**_

The last thing Christine recalled upon waking up and seeing the black sheer drape over the swan bed, was seeing her own face looking at her through a wedding veil. How strange this entire evening had been! From the triumph of her appearance on stage, to finally coming face to face with her teacher, the Angel of Music who had guided her all these years!

But, he was not the Angel sent to her by her father. This was a man in a mask, and a man who very obviously wanted her to belong to him! Why else would he have a life size mannequin of her dressed in a wedding gown and veil! She felt confused and frightened, for the voice she'd known all these years as her guide and her guardian was neither. He cared for her; that much was obvious, though she couldn't imagine why he should. And did she care anything at all for him?

'I don't even know who he is, or what he looks like,' she thought to herself, as she crept into the main part of the lair. He was sitting at the organ, playing music that she'd never heard before. He looked up at her, then returned to his music. Sometime after her faint, her shoes and hose had been removed, but that meant little to her now. The music he played was so intoxicating to her. She moved closer to him, and the music stopped.

"Who is that man in the shadows? Who is that man in the mask?" her hands caressed the face in front of her; such a beautiful face! Only that half white mask marred the handsome features. His eyes were closed in pure joy.

Gently, almost reverently, she lifted the mask to reveal terribly scared and wrinkled skin; somewhat reddened in places. She had just a glimpse of that face, but it was enough. Without her thinking of it, her lips parted and a small gasp of shock and surprise came out.

It was enough to enrage him. He leapt to his feet, pushing her roughly from him. "Damn you! You little prying Padora!"

She landed on the floor against a wall, watching in fright as he ripped a cloth from a mirror. "You little viper! Is this what you wanted to see!" he roared angrily, turning abruptly from the mirror with one hand hiding the disfigured area. He marched away from her, hurt and upset. She knew she deserved every name he called her, and he now intended to keep her prisoner. For how long?

"Fear can turn to love, " he added, a sob in his voice. This man was, after all, her teacher! He had taught her voice to sing, and had been her friend from their very first day. He was a man, but not a whole man by 'polite' society's standards. Did looks _really _matter? He had treated her with nothing but kindness since the day she heard his voice in the darkness all those years ago. What kind of shallow person was she to be repulsed by something he couldn't help?

Tears streamed down her face. How could she have been so careless and cruel to him? What a repayment for years of mentoring and guidance. He'd been strict with her as well, but then, all good teachers were strict. She had needed someone to put restrictions on her after all the indulgence her father had shown her, and the Angel of Music had given her that discipline whenever she needed it.

He was coming around the steps now, still talking to her, still covering the ruined side of his face with his hand. He wasn't so angry now. His shoulders slumped as he sat on the top step, being careful not to move too quickly or sit too close to her. "Not that I don't deserve his distrust," she thought. "I don't deserve his kindness, either."

"Oh, Christine!" he sighed. The sob in his voice, the broken-hearted dejection was more than she could stand. Anger she could deal with, but this heart wrenching, soulful sadness was different. It made her more ashamed, and in her shame, she wanted to make amends. But how?

"Dummy! Give him back his dignity! Hand him the mask!" came her angry thought. She picked up the mask, and held it out to him, raising to her knees as she did so. He took it from her and turned aside. Tentatively, hesitantly, she reached out her arms and encircled his shoulders, which were trembling, whether from pent up rage or from sadness, she couldn't tell. She didn't care why he trembled. She only wanted to relieve his pain.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered softly. "Oh great!" she added to herself, feeling his chest tense under her grasp. "Just great! Drive the knife in deeper, why don't you? NOW he thinks you feel sorry for him, not that you're apologizing for hurting him!" She felt him try to move away, so she tightened her embrace. "Master," she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. "Please listen to me. The world has always responded to your face by recoiling in fear and revulsion. And because of that, you've hidden yourself away from the world. I've hurt you terribly by reacting the way I did, and I'm sorry for having caused you so much pain after all you've done for me."

"He looks like he doesn't believe you," she berated herself. "Why should he? How in the world do I get him to understand it's not pity that I feel for HIM, but for what happened to make his face this way? I don't know how to make the words happen!"

She tightened her embrace in desperation, wishing that her gesture would say what words failed to do for her. She was shivering and cold. To her surprise, she felt his hand on both of hers that were crossed on his chest, and she felt that hand squeeze hers reassuringly.

"Master, dare I ask your forgiveness?"

"Dare I ask_ yours_ for my outrageous behavior?"

"But, I took from you what was not my right to take, " she replied. "You had every right to be mad at me. How can I not forgive you?"

"Then," he replied gently, "How can I not forgive YOU, child?" She stiffened at his use of the word 'child'. That from a man who had her likeness clothed in a wedding gown? She felt even more confused than before. "I had intended one day to share my disfigurement with you, but only when I felt you were ready."

Though his voice was kind, she hated having him refer to her as a child Maybe compared to him she _was_ younger, but certainly no child. He always referred to her as "child" whenever they were together, but certainly he could recognize that she was more than a child, if that mannequin was any indication!

He gently moved out of her embrace and stood up. Christine also stood and moved close to him again, laying one hand against the unmarred side of his face. His eyes burned into hers, searching for answers, but she wasn't sure what he was asking of her. She felt confused, but she wasn't as frightened as before. She felt sympathy for his plight, just as she would for any human that was in pain. She regretted hurting him as well, and she felt other feelings, intense feelings, that she didn't know how to describe.

She felt disappointed when he disengaged from her embrace. It had felt like something was bringing them closer, but then he seemed to shut a door on her. "It is part of a woman's nature to be curious, and you are no exception. I don't intend to make you my prisoner."

Christine remained standing where he left her, hand still slightly raised as if he'd never moved from her. Disappointment showed in her face. "I deserved your anger, master. Father always told me I should ask before looking into other people's things. It was a lesson I should have learned." She dropped her hand to her side with a little sigh.

"Come, we must go," he responded, holding a hand out to her. "Those fools who run my theater will be missing you."

She didn't reply; her expression begging him to let her stay. How she wished he would agree. But no, she'd done enough damage for one day. Silently, she followed him to the boat

_**Out of the Darkness**_

Whatever the Phantom had used to make her believe the passage was well lit by torches along the walls had obviously worn off, for the only illumination now was the small lantern at the bow of the boat. The darkness and the silence unnerved Christine even more, so that she felt the need to speak. She didn't even know his name, and to call him Angel seemed ludicrous now, so she addressed him as she always had in the past.

"Master, why do you call this "your opera house" when it now belongs to Mssrs Firmin and Andre, and Msr Lefevre before that?"

"Because, dear child, it IS 'mine'. I have been here longer than they, and I have made it mine." He seemed amused by her inquiry.

"Might I be so bold as to ask how that came to be?"

"You may, but I reserve the answer to another time; when I feel you are ready to know. I think you've been through enough tonight, and my tale is not a pleasant bedtime story to tell."

She bristled inwardly. There he goes again! Treating her as thought she was still seven, and still feeling lost without her father to guide her. Why was he so willingly to think of her as an adult in some ways, but talk to her as if she were a child?

"Fine. Another time. But surely you'll explain to me WHY, during all these years, you let me believe you were the Angel my father promised, " she retorted spiritedly. "You owe me THAT courtesy, at the very least. Obviously, you are no angel!"

He laughed, but it was cold, almost humorless laugh. "True. 'Angel' is not a word most would use to describe me. You are right, I do owe an explanation. Do you recall your very first night in the ballet de corps dormitory?"

"How could I forget it? My entire world had been shattered by the death of my father, and I was all alone in the world, until I heard your voice."

_Then My World Was Shattered _

Night had fallen, and her father lay six feet beneath the ground in a simple pine box. It was all that could be afforded for him. Despite Gustave Daae's notoriety as a violinist, money had always been in short supply, even when they had patrons to support them.

With her mother and father gone, Christine Daae was orphaned, and had no other relatives. Fortunately, her father's last patron was able to secure a place for her at the Opera Populaire's ballet de corps, and she would be living in the dormitory there, learning to be a ballerina. Maybe, she hoped, continuing her vocal education as well. It was a better future than that of living in the city's orphanage until she came of marrying age. At least her future was a little bright, even though her world as she knew it was lost forever.

She looked up at the woman carrying the small valise containing all her worldly possessions, kindly holding her hand as they walked to the imposing Opera Populaire. Mme. Giry, recently a widow, had told her she had a child about her age named Meg, also a ballet student. Mme Giry, once a ballerina herself, was now in charge of the ballet de corps, and was now Christine's guardian. Brusque, but not uncaring, Mme Giry looked upon her new charge with a sad smile.

"I know, _Cherie, _your heart is broken. Time will heal. In the meantime, you will not be alone. Meg and I shall be your new family."

Christine tried to hug those comforting words to her as she lay in her dormitory bed later that night, wishing those words were her loving father's arms around her. Not wanting to disturb the sleeping girls near her with her tears and sobs, she crept out of bed to the chapel. There, she collapsed in a miserable heap in front of her father's picture, which she'd placed in the chapel a few hours earlier. Weeping great tears and choking back tormented sobs for her loss.

The Phantom had heard whispers of the new arrival, and his curiosity had been piqued by the gossip. He knew she was an orphan, the only one in the dormitory, and a part of him felt for her. In a strange way, he too, had been orphaned at a young age, though his parents had chosen to remove themselves from him. He envied her for having known a parent's love instead of being rejected. He'd never cried for them the way this little girl was crying for her father. It tore at his heart and without realizing what he was doing, he called to her.

"Child, child!" came a soft, male voice. The voice seemed to echo all around the room, yet was not so loud that the dormitory girls could hear. "Why are you crying child?"

Christine raised her tear stained face to her father's picture. It wasn't her father's well loved voice, but it WAS a male voice, and was speaking to her. Ever since her father had died, she waited in anticipation for the promised Angel of Music to appear to her, only to be disappointed by the continuing silence. Had the Angel finally come to her? .

"Who are you? Who calls me?"

"Never mind that for now. What is wrong," came the reply. "You cry as if your world was shattered into a million pieces."

"My father is dead; I am an orphan," she replied simply. "I have no one now, except this place. My father promised that he would send the Angel of Music to me when he went to Heaven. But the Angel hasn't come, and I am all alone, despite what Mme. Giry says. She's just being nice."

There was a long silence, so long that Christine feared the voice had left her alone too. "Are you still there?" she called.

"I am here," came the reply.

"Who ARE you?"

There was another, but shorter silence, and then the voice announced, "I am the Angel of Music your father promised you. I will be your teacher and your guide in this new life. I will guard you and keep you safe. But, you must show yourself worthy of my guidance and my gifts. Are you willing, child?"

"Oh, yes, Angel! I am!" came the child's grateful cry. Her face, so red and tear stained earlier, was lit by an inner joy, and her smile was radiant. From his stance in the shadows, the Phantom nearly gasped at the beauty that smile gave to the little girl, and he had a glimpse of the beauty she would grow to be. He must be careful, and remain hidden, until the time was right.

He started to sing a lullaby. One he had the gypsy mothers sing to their children. He sang it softly, using the gypsy's language. Though she didn't know the words, the tune must've been familiar, because she sang along, and her voice did not hold the shrill pitch of most children's voices. It held a hint of greatness, and with his help, it WOULD be great.

Christine felt the Angel's voice comfort and soothe her, and soon she feel asleep. As he let the last words drop off into the quiet, he was rewarded with Christine's deep breathing and he saw that her tense body had relaxed. He quietly stepped from the shadows, lifted the little girl into his arms, and quietly carried her into the dormitory, tucking her into her bed much as a doting father would do.

No one in the dormitory, not even Meg Giry sleeping in the bed next to Christine's, stirred at his presence. He stroked Christine's dark hair, heard her sigh in contentment, then walked quietly from the room.

_**Returning To The Underground Lake **_

"I decided that night to become your Angel of Music, " the Phantom continued, "To not accept the role would have crushed your spirit, and caused you disappointment that I could not bear to cause. You had already lost everything that mattered, I saw no harm in letting you hold on to one precious memory. So I became your teacher." In a softer voice, so soft she had to strain to hear him, he added, "And I hoped to also be, at the very least, your friend, "

Christine remained quiet for some time, making the Phantom wonder if he had hurt her anew with his admission. Finally, she broke the silence. "I remember that night. You took away the hurt and the loneliness of the days that had preceded it. I felt safe for the first time in a long time. I remember the tune, but the words weren't the same. What does it mean?" Under her breath, she added, "I wish you would sing it for me. It would take away some of my fear of this darkness."

Slowly, softly, each word dropped into the darkness, his voice wrapping her in a blanket of warmth and security,_"Child of the wilderness/Born into emptiness/Learn to be lonely/Learn to live a live without love . ..Learn to be lonely/Learn how to love/life that is lived/Alone."_

By the time the lullaby ended, the boat reached a docking point, but it was not the same one they'd used earlier.

"We can't use the same route," the Phantom explained. "There are many passages behind these walls; you may yet learn of them. For now, I shall be your guide." He took a lighted torch in hand and offered his arm to her, as opposed to trying to hold her hand as he had on their earlier journey.

Wordlessly, she accepted his arm, and they followed the hallway to a door. He placed the torch in a receptacle, and listened at the door for a moment, placing his finger against his lips, he opened it a bit, looked out, and then gestured for her to follow him. They emerged into the chapel.

"You have experienced much and need to rest. I have requested the managers have you portray the lead role, the Countess, in the new production of _Il Muto _tonight." He raised his hand to stifle her exclamation. "No, don't protest. I am, if nothing else,_ still_ your teacher, and it is necessary for your career to progress. Carlotta is well suited to the role of the page boy, the silent one, and this has also been relayed to the managers. You will do well tonight. Now, go rest."

He gently removed her hand from his arm and stepped back, watching as she turned from him to obey his demands. He had deliberately reverted to his role of teacher, and he was glad to see that she was able to respond to him as a student. He knew she was overwhelmed by what she had learned; she needed time, and sleep, to absorb it all. He would give her that time by guiding her career.

Christine turned at the doorway, her expression questioning.

"There is no time for talk right now, child. You need rest. I have instructed Mme Giry to inform the managers of your return, and to watch out for you tonight. We **_will_** meet again. Now go."

He stepped back through the door they'd entered, and made sure that she heard the lock turn. Should she think of following after him, she'd be lost in the passages; locking the door seemed the best prevention to that possibly. He doubted that she'd try to find other passages on her own.

Christine watched the Phantom leave her, and heard the decisive clicking of the bolt. 'Guess that settles that,' she thought to herself. "It's obvious he doesn't want me following after him, and I'm certainly not going to beg!" She turned, and gasped with surprise, as Mme Giry was standing behind her.

"Come, you need to rest in preparation for your new role tonight," Mme Giry said, gesturing for Christine to proceed her to the dormitory. "I shall let the Vicomte know that you are safe. It is all that I can do for him at this point."

"Mme Giry, what is--"

She shook her head. "No, Cherie. No time to talk right now. Save your questions for a later time. The Angel sees, and knows what is happening. He will be most displeased to know you are not obeying his wishes."

Like an obedient child, Christine followed Mme Giry to the dormitory, but she wasn't going to drop the matter. "You know who he is, don't you? You've seen the face behind the mask.."

"Yes, " Mme Giry replied. "He is a man, but not 'just' a man. He is many things; architect, magician, musician. He is very intelligent, and he has taken an interest in you. It is best not to disobey him. Now, rest."

Mme Giry turned away, and gestured to her daughter Meg to follow her, leaving Christine to her own devices. Christine lay on her bed but didn't expect to sleep; there was too much to think about. A few minutes later, she was sound asleep.

_**NOTES**_

Meg and Mme Giry found the managers, along with Carlotta, Piangi, and the Vicomte in the main hall, discussing the notes they'd received from "OG". None of them were very happy by the directives they'd received; all but the Vicomte were extremely angry and annoyed.

"Miss Daae has returned, " Mme Giry announced.

"None the worse for wear as far as we're concerned!" replied Andre.

Not to be outdone, Firmin added, "I trust her midnight oil is well and truly burned."

"May I see her?" The Vicomte asked. He was the only one who seemed relieved that Christine Daae was back.

"She will see no one."

"She needed rest." Meg added.

Ignoring her daughter, Mme Giry continued, "Here, I have a note."

"Let me see it," the assembled responded as one.

"Please," entreated the Vicomte.

Firmin snatched the note from Mme Giry and began reading "Gentlemen, I have sent you several amiable notes. . ."

Mme Giry waited patiently. She knew the content of the note; as the Phantom had sent similar comments for her with the one she delivered. She didn't know much of what had transpired after the Phantom locked the dressing room door, but from both their expressions when he brought Christine back, things had not gone as he'd anticipated. A disappointed Phantom was not a good thing. That made her nervous.

The latest note resulted in the anticipated tumult from the managers; and righteous indignation from Carlotta and Piangi. The Vicomte, however, seemed genuinely concerned over Christine's welfare. Mme Giry watched as the managers groveled once again to win their diva over, while Carlotta as usual overplayed her role of the martyr.

The Vicomte asked again if he could just see Christine for a moment, but Mme Giry knew the Phantom was still keeping watch and refused his plea. The Phantom had given her explicit instructions on this matter, and she was going to obey them. She shook her head in dissent and turned away.

The managers, Carlotta, and her entourage moved off to her dressing room, Mme Giry following to see what would happen.

The managers seemed determined to rebel against the Phantom, and she had a feeling that terrible things were going to result from their disobedience. They were not the first to take umbrage at working "for" an unseen and demanding personage as OG, but they would not be successful. They, like those who had gone before, would learn that it was better to obey the Phantom than fight him. When they worked WITH him, life was much more pleasant within the opera house. .

"The Angel sees, the Angel knows all that is happening, and all that you do. It is NOT wise to disobey him," Mme Giry warned. The managers waved her off as if she were a pesky fly.

'I've done my duty,' she murmured to herself, and to the Phantom. 'I am not responsible for what happens next," and she walked away to check on Christine. She knew the Phantom lurked behind Carlotta's mirror and was hearing everything the managers said. He was not going to be happy, and she didn't want to be in the path of his retribution.

The Vicomte, elated that Christine was safe, but disappointed that he could not see such for himself, reviewed the note he'd received from the Opera Ghost. "The Angel of Music has her under his wing," he read. "Make no attempt to see her again." Written like a jealous lover, instead of a teacher! What manner of man would act like this? Commanding that things be done HIS way, not allowing dissent? And who did this teacher think he was to command that he not see Christine?

Raoul wasn't about to allow an unseen rival to tell him when or IF he could see Christine. He'd be there tonight, and what's more, he intended to be present in box five, in order to meet first hand this so-called Angel of Music for himself.

PREPARING FOR _IL MUTO_

Christine felt quite refreshed after five hours sleep. But she was still confused over the events of the last few hours. What kind of man would show as much interest in a woman as her teacher had shown her, only to turn back to teacher/student mode when emotions ran high? Was her teacher truly interested in her romantically or was the image of her face in a wedding veil just another one of his illusions? It had seemed so real!

Her mind raced over these questions time and again, but she could never come to a satisfactory conclusion. It was obvious to her that he cared more for her than as a student; otherwise, why the figure in the wedding dress/veil? She was more convinced than ever that she didn't dream that; otherwise, the rest of the events would be a dream as well. It only made sense that the dress was real, as were her teacher's feelings for her.

Did she return those feelings? THAT was the big question. She cared for her teacher, just as she would cared for Mme Giry and Meg, her only family. But, did she have the feelings for her teacher, a man whose name she did not yet know, that would sustain a relationship, even a marriage?

She knew that his face played a major part in the equation from his point of view; how others reacted to his face had shaped his reactions and behaviors with the world. It was a dark view that he possessed, and he was very quick to protect himself from further upset, except where she had been concerned.

Yet, how could he expect her NOT to be surprised at his features when she first viewed them? Even if she'd been properly prepared, would she not have been momentarily startled? She had to admit that she would have reacted, prepared or not. But, she wouldn't have been subjected to a temper as wild as a sudden summer thunderstorm, either. But, on the other hand, had he been allowed to prepare her for the site of his disfigurement, he wouldn't have been so upset over her reaction, because he, too, would have been better prepared.

It was obvious that his view of the world was different from hers, and she wasn't sure she wanted to live several feet below the surface of the earth, even for love! It never occurred to her that he might, for her sake, actually consider leaving his underground home for a life above with her. Just the thought of living under the opera house for the rest of her life gave her a feeling of being closed in that she didn't like one bit.

'Fear can turn to love, " he'd told her in his tirade. She supposed that were true, but fear was also a very strong emotion, almost as strong as love, as she wasn't sure that she could overcome her fear of his temper as easily as she could his face. The only one on one relationships she'd ever had were the warm and gentle love given by her father, and her childhood relationship with Raoul.

Raoul. A small smile lighted her face as she thought of him, so happy to see her the night of the gala. He'd never uttered a harsh word to her when they were children; she doubted he would ever treat anyone harshly, unless they deserved it. Certainly he wouldn't go into a rage at an innocent act, as had her teacher! Gentle, loving Raoul. How worried he must be for her! She must get word to him that she was ok.

"Where are you going so close to curtain?" queried Mme Giry, meeting Christine in the hallway outside the dormitory. Christine was securing a cape around her shoulders in preparation for leaving the opera house.

"I need to get word to someone that I am all right," she replied.

"The Vicomte has been informed of your return. You **must **prepare yourself for the role of the silent pageboy. The managers have decided to..._overlook_ your teacher's casting suggestion. Carlotta is playing the lead. You might have plenty of time to speak with the Vicomte perhaps, AFTER the performance."

Christine reluctantly followed her guardian to the wardrobe area, to prepare for the debut of _Il Muto._

Erik was annoyed. His instructions to the managers were very clear concerning his expectations for_ Il Muto_ and Christine's career. Were they so blinded by their lust for money that they couldn't see Christine had more talent in her little finger than Carlotta had in her entire head? Ego does not equate with talent, never had, and never will, despite the fact that Carlotta had a great deal of ego.

Erik knew he was going to have to punish them where it would hurt them the most, in the pocket. He went into his chemistry area, and had soon concocted a potion that looked like the spray Carlotta used to loosen her vocal chords, enabling her to hit the higher notes. The potion would look and taste the same, but the end result would make the Prima Donna sound more like a dying frog than a trained operatic singer. The managers would have no choice but to put Christine in for Carlotta.

"No other choice, that is, than to refund a full house," he laughed humourlessly.

Perhaps he wouldn't need the potion. The managers might still see the wisdom of his directions to them. But he intended to be prepared, just in case.

The presentation of_ Il Muto_, a comedic opera, was being well received by the audience, Firmin and Andre were pleased by the evening's success so far. They had been a trifle nervous over the Opera Ghost's warning of dire consequences for not following his instructions, but as the evening continued to be uneventful, they allowed themselves to relax, and bask in their apparent triumph.

Both men were in agreement that previous managers had allowed this entity far to much leeway for far too long with no return on the investment. They did not intend to blindly follow some unseen extortionist's demands; they'd worked too hard for too long to achieve their status, and no one else was going to benefit from their hard work except for them.

Indeed, it appeared to them a firm and united stance against the so-called 'Phantom of the Opera' was the best approach. By the end of the evening, they anticipated his stranglehold on their business would be broken. Instead, they were about to reap the fruits of the willful disobedience they had sown.

Erik peered through a small window built into the upper balcony of the opera house; where painters had colored in bright blue sky and puffy white clouds. This balcony was little used, but the maids worked to keep it clean and dust free, just in case the opera house ever had a complete 'standing room only' taking that would require the use of that area.

He'd already checked box five, and was perturbed to find the managers had sold it out to the Vicomte, of all people. He took it as a personal insult against him, as only was the Vicomte esconsced in his box, but was sittingin_ his_ chair! That was a small annoyance, but one that the managers would pay for quite dearly.

It had been a small matter for him to exchange Carlotta's spray for his own concoction, and he had disposed of her potion in the lavatory before heading to his box. As far as he was concerned, no one had seen him slip behind stage, make the exchange, and then slip out.

His heart ached to see his beloved Christine valiantly portray the silent pageboy. He watched as she endured the clumsy pawing of the small male cast member that was Piangi's favorite friend. 'The little fool! How dare he treat her like a harlot in the street!" he growled to himself.

He remembered that the incident had been written into the plot, giving some unnecessary comedy to the scene, and willed himself to remain calm. He slipped onto the balcony to wait for the moment to make his presence known.

"Serafimo, away with this pretense!" sang Carlotta. "Kiss me, in my husband's absence!"

"Did I not say that box five was to be kept empty for me?" He used the natural acoustics of the balcony to allow his voice to seem to echo through the auditorium, causing the attendees to turn their heads in surprise and alarm. His voice had the controlled growl of a predator, ready to pounce on its' prey..

"It's him, the Phantom of the Opera!" he read-lip Meg Giry exclaim. He also saw Christine's face whiten in shocked recognition, saw her exclaim "It's _him_!"

Damn! He'd forgotten that she'd heard his angry tones in the lair only a few hours before, and she recognized the voice. Now she's know that he was, indeed, the notorious Opera Ghost. Too late to worry about that, however. What was done, was done, and could be remedied later. He'd see to that.

"Your part is silent, little toad!" Carlotta snapped at her rival, using the disruption to toddle to the wings for some throat spray from her maid.

'Ah, ha!' Erik smiled grimly. "A toad, madam?" He added, his figure obscured to those below by the chandelier. "Perhaps it is YOU who are the toad!"

Carlotta fanned herself and instructed the conductor to begin the musical phrase again. "Serafina, away with this pretense! Kiss me in my master's CRRRROOOAAAAK!"

The unlady-like sound that emitted from Carlotta's throat sounded like a cross between a dying amphibian and a lusty beer-induced belch. The conductor waved his baton, the music began again.

"Poor fool, he makes me CROAAAAAK! UUUULPPPP! URRRRPPP!" Now all Carlotta could emit were more grotesque noises. She cried out for her maid and fled the stage, leaving chaos in her wake and laughter amidst the audience. .

At the first unseemly noise from their diva, Messrs. Firmin and Andre raced from their box. They had to do something, and fast, otherwise, they would be refunding quite a few thousand francs to unhappy patrons.

"We apologize for the interruption," they stammered and stuttered to the audience. "The performance will resume in 10 minutes time, with Miss Christine Daae singing the role of the Countess!" Their announcement was met with roars of approval and thunderous applause.

Mme Giry led the surprised and shocked Christine from the stage to Carlotta's dressing room, handing her the signature red rose tied with a black ribbon. "He is most pleased with you tonight," she said, helping the stunned girl into Carlotta's gown.

Christine couldn't find the words to make a reply. Her teacher, the man who wanted to marry her was the _Opera Ghost_? She could hardly comprehend this news. She had heard all the stories of the Opera Ghost, dismissing them as so much gossip. Apparently the gossip held more truth than fable. As she recalled all the stories she'd dismissed as flights of fancy, she grew more and more upset.

How could she EVER be able to live with someone capable of such terrible things? No matter how much good he had done for her and for others, that didn't cancel out the fact that he had a cruel, heartless streak. That fact frightened her, for it could take very little for that cruelty to be unleashed on her. She'd already managed once to arouse his terrible temper!

The black ribboned rose quivered in her hands, which suddenly felt chilled to the bone.

Content that his plan to advance Christine's singing career was well in motion, Erik departed the balcony, returning to the secret passages he knew so well. He wanted to be backstage when she sang, and to see firsthand the audience reacting to her talent.

Unbeknownst to him, one of the stagehands, Joseph Buquet, had witnessed the exchange of Carlotta's throat sprays. Instead of alerting the maid, Buquet had tried to follow the notorious Opera Ghost, to apprehend him if he could. Buquet dreamed often of capturing and turning in the Phantom of the Opera; he believed that would not only impress the new mangers with him, but the capture might possibly result in a handsome reward for ridding the opera house of it's poltergeist.

Unfortunately for him, Buquet was not very experienced with the passages and trap doors of the opera house, and lost track of his prey. When he heard Erik's voice from the balcony near the chandelier, he raced along the hallways leading to it, just in time to see Erik close a well disguised door behind him.

Buguet rushed to the door, opened it, and slipped inside, catching a glimpse of a door closing with a quiet 'click'. He opened the door, and saw a shadow receding along an inner corridor. He hurried after the shadow, being careful not to make noise, his mind racing with images of wealth and fame of his own.

Erik continued his way along the passages to the backstage area, and climbed to the upper rafters. There, he could see and hear the remainder of the opera, but not be seen by anyone. It wasn't as comfortable as his own seat in box five, but it would do.

An odor of cheap wine mixed with body odor drifted to him; he was being followed! Highly unusual for that to happen, but he could tell by the aromathat his pursuer was Buquet. The stage hand was often a problem for Erik, always making up wild stories about his appearance so the ballet tarts would squeal in alarm, or trying to catch Erik and turn him in to the management.

In the past, Erik had considered Buquet a minor pest, but he couldn't ignore the stagehand any longer. He knew now of the back passages to the opera house, making him a liability, and liabilities were best disposed of quickly. It was doubtful someone of Buquet's demeanor would be greatly missed, and it would certainly be quite a lesson for the managers about obedience.

Erik removed his Punjab lasso from the lining of his cape, where he kept it in case it was needed. He didn't have to check the knots to make sure it was ready for use. The Punjab lasso was like an old friend, always ready when he needed it.

Buquet was looking frustrated; Erik had slipped into the shadows and out of sight. Erik stepped silently onto a catwalk, waiting with grim amusement for Buquet to get a little closer. Buquet was looking over his shoulder, just in case the 'opera ghost' was sneaking up behind him, and not paying attention to what was in front of him. Erik stood still, holding the lasso. Waiting.

Buquet sensed, rather than saw, an obstacle in front of him. His eyes widened with fright to see the masked figure right in front of his nose. His glance moved to the Punjab lasso swinging slightly in Erik's hand and Buquet starting running back the way he'd come, Erik close behind.

Below them, the dancers were hastily assembling to perform their dance, uprooted from Act III to fill the time it would take for Christine to change costumes. The dance resembled a kind of organized chaos, as the sheep were stubbornly resisting their handler's attempts to get them onto the stage.

Buquet continued trying to elude capture; moving along the catwalks, looking for safety. As well as Buquet knew the catwalks, however, Erik knew them even better, and kept turning up where the stagehand least expected him to be.

Sweat poured down Buquet's face; he wasn't used to so much exertion, and his alcohol use was telling on him. His breathing was labored as he rushed along the catwalks, away from the Phantom and Death.

At one point, he thought that perhaps he _would_ escape, as he was across the stage from Erik, who was standing on another catwalk, watching and mimicking Buquet's every move. When Buquet went right, there moved Erik. A twist to the left, and Erik moved the same way. It was as if Erik was able to read the stagehand's mind!

Buquet decided to just make a run for it, and launched himself to one side, making for whatever safety he could find anywhere he could find it. Maybe, if he got to the stage floor, he could find safety with the maids and other stage hands. The opera ghost would never try anything with witnesses around!

Buquet's relief at reaching the ladder was short lived, however, as a rough textured rope descended over his throat, and began tightening over his windpipe, cutting off air. He feebly struggled against the rope closing over his neck, but he was too out of shape to do any good.

He never saw more than a glimpse of the face belonging to the hands holding that rope. If he had, he would have realized that the face didn't have yellow, parchment-like skin, and that there was, indeed, a nose to the face as well. In fact, with the exception of a half mask of white, the face looked as normal as his own. But, it was not to be, and Buquet's body went limp.

Erik exhaled in satisfaction. He had no worries now about Buquet blabbing about the passages and his lair being discovered. He carried Buquet's lifeless body out to the catwalk, and substituted the Punjab lasso for another rope, hanging from the rafters. Looping the rope around Buquet's neck, he adjusted it until it looked as though Buquet had gotten caught up in the rope, and in his drunken state, easily believed by the alcohol on his breath, had slipped and accidentally hanged himself.

But, Erik had misjudged the actual length of the rope, so that instead of Buquet's body hanging in the upper rafters, it plummeted to the stage floor. The ballet girls and audience shrieked in terror.

"Damn!" Erik cursed his carelessness, but used the bedlam below to make good his escape before anyone could look up and finger him as the cause of Buquet's demise. He heard Firmin and Andre plea with the audience to remain calm, it was just an accident as he fled to the rooftop to think.

Christine and Mme Giry heard the screams from the stage, and rushed out to see what had happened. Upon learning that Buquet was dead, she felt more terror and upset than ever. She recalled stories that the Opera Ghost had "done away" with people before. Could it be possible that her teacher was capable of committing murder?

Not that Christine was sad for Buquet; she'd never appreciated his leering smiles at her that made her feel dirty. But she couldn't help but wonder what kind of person, even one as disfigured as her teacher, could kill _anyone_, even someone like Buquet.

Still holding the blackribboned rose, she rushed along the backstage, needing to get some fresh air and to calm her mind.

"Are you alright?" came a familiar voice in front of her.

"Raoul!" She was definitely happy to see him. At least HE made sense in a world that didn't seem to make any sense any more.

"We must talk."

"Not here. HE might see us," knowing her teacher saw and knew everything, but not knowing how, she didn't want him to know how torn her soul was. She cared for her teacher, she was flattered that he felt so deeply for her, but she was still very confused. Perhaps she could make some sense of everything by talking it out with Raoul. But where could they talk? The roof! Of course!

"Not here, Come, to the roof!"

They rushed up the stairs to the roof, the one place Christine felt the Phantom would not go and where she could speak openly with Raoul. After all, all she knew of the Phantom was that he lived and lurked in the dark passages of the opera house. She had no idea that he often ventured out into the world outside the opera house. In her mind, the roof was a safe place.

It was dark, but the full moon lit the rooftop as if it were day, and a light snow was falling. She drew her cloak around her fo warmth after closing the door behind her.

"Why have you brought me here?" Raoul asked, concern and confusion in his eyes.

"It's the only place I could think of where he wouldn't see or hear us," she replied.

"Who are you speaking of?"

"The Phantom of the Opera," she replied matter of factly.

"Christine, there IS no Phantom of the Opera! It's just a story, a made up tale. What happened to Carlotta and Buquet had nothing to do with any Phantom!"

She shook her head in vehement denial, "It's not a fable, Raoul. I've _seen_ the Opera Ghost, and he has been my teacher. What I thought was the Angel of Music sent by father is the Opera Ghost. I'm sure of it!"

She then related the strange adventure she'd had the night of the gala, after he'd left her in Carlotta's dressing room: of the wedding dress and look-alike mannequin, of the tiny look she had of her teacher's face. She began trembling at the memory of the Phantom's abrupt anger over her removing his mask.

"When I think of how volatile his temper can be, it's not hard to believe that he is the Opera Ghost, " she continued. "Look at how easily he removed Carlotta from the stage! And how can we be sure he didn't cause Buquet to stumble into a rope and hang himself! And yet, he has given me so much; he taught my voice to sing! And his eyes, those eyes that burn; eyes that both threaten and adore! How am I supposed to find a love-- to GIVE a love to someone of such absolute contradictions?"

"You can't, and you shouldn't have to," was Raoul's reply. "You don't have to marry him, just because he wants you to. **_I'm_** here now, and I will keep you safe."

Christine walked away from the arms reaching out to her. How she wanted Raoul to hold her, and to make her feel safe! But dare she let herself love him, when someone else who could turn from warm and gentle to cold and cruel in the blink of an eye had made no secret of his desire for her?

"I don't know, Raoul. I want to believe there's a chance for us, but I'm afraid."

"There's no need to be afraid, " he consoled her. "I'm here. There's no reason to fear anything – or anyone – any longer." He drew her into his arms, and kissed her, first gently, then with a growing passion. To his delight, she returned that kiss with equal fervor and when he twirled her in his arms, the rose she'd carried fell to the snow covered roof.

Erik stared sightlessly at the panoramic picture of Paris spread below him. The winter wind whipped at his cloak. Now what was he going to do? Christine knew that he was more than just her teacher, she now knew that he was the Opera Ghost, the malevolent apparition that haunted the Opera Populaire. Even from a distance, he could tell that the realization had filled her with terror. He regretted not being more careful about disguising his voice. "Old fool!" he berated himself, "You can't keep slipping up like that!"

He knew exactly how all his plans had gone awry; the moment Christine removed that wretched mask from his face! Had she not been so damn curious, and he not so complacent to think she wouldn't want to see what was hidden behind the mask, everything would have worked out as he'd anticipated!

Now, he was letting himself become careless, and that carelessness would be his undoing! He had to gain control of himself, and of the situation, or all would be lost.

He knew that bedlam still reigned on the stage, with police called to investigate the death of Buquet. He knew he'd have to remain on the roof for awhile, until the tumult ended and the authorities were gone. He had no doubt, despite his carelessness, that the authorities would determine Buquet's hanging had been accidental.

He heard footsteps and voices at the door to the rooftop. 'Who on Earth? No one EVER bothers coming here, especially not at night! Could it be the police, searching for me? Did someone witness Buquet's murder and finger me?' He hid in the shadows of one of the statues, warily watching the door, his mind racing over different escape scenarios.

He was both relieved and happy to see Christine step out onto the rooftop, but the joy was diminished by the sight of the Vicomte de Chagny following her. He watched, and listened, as they spoke of him.

It soon became obvious that not only had Christine connected him to the mysterious 'Opera Ghost', but that she had a tremendous fear of him as well. The falsehoods told by Buquet and others of the Phantom of the Opera had built themselves into something dangerous in her mind, and he could see that the idea that he wanted her to share his life held great terror for her.

His heart broke at this knowledge; he moaned in pain and anguish, "Christine!" That moaned whisper of her name carried itself to her and she reacted to it.

He moved deeper into the shadows, and clung to a small seed of hope that she still felt something for him, because she still clutched the black ribboned rose. But that small bit of hope was crushed when she dropped the rose to accept the Vicomte's fierce, protective and possessive embrace. An embrace which led to a very passionate kiss between the pair along with proclamations of love for each other.

Hot tears sliced a frozen path on his face under the mask as the Vicomte whirled her around in his arms, their excited voices making all kinds of plans. Plans that did not include him. They left the rooftop, but the rose remained where Christine had dropped it, a blood red denial in the newly fallen snow.

Erik left the safety of the shadows to retrieve the rose. Tears continued to pour from his eyes as he held the still warm rose to his lips. Despite all attempts to contain them, great sobs shook him.

He could hear their excited voices fade in the distance and the pain of the moment made him clench his fists. The rose crumbled into pieces in his grasp, just as his heart was falling into pieces at her betrayal. The thorns of the rose bit deeply into his flesh, but he paid them no mind. Nor did he notice the blood that seeped from the small holes cut into his palms. The pain in his heart hurt far worse than any flesh wound.

"I gave you my music, made your soul take wing. And now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me. He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing. . ."

Unable to contain his sadness and anger any longer, he raced to the angel statue overlooking the entrance to the opera house and shouted a desperate curse to the heavens, "You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!"

End of the first section.

A Phantom of the Opera Story

by

Wanderingchat

**YE OLDE DISCLAIMER**

_This is a work of pure fiction. Any borrowing of lyrics, descriptions, names, places, and events is purely co-incidental, and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by ALW, the RUG, the descendents of Gaston LeRoux, Warner Brothers films, Etc., Etc., Etc., _

**_Prolouge_**

He waited, standing behind the mirror of Carlotta's dressing room, waiting for her to be alone. He had waited for this day for years, since the first day he'd sung the gypsy lullaby to her, and she had called him the Angel of Music. She had outperformed all his hopes for her this night, now he would reveal himself to her, and make her a part of his world at long last.

He knew the throngs of people who waited to congratulate her would eventually leave. He kept his patience. He waited this long, he could wait a little longer. He smiled, watching her fondly handle the red rose he'd left for her. The red rose with it's black ribbon. His signature sign that she had done well.

The door opened, a young man, a blond Adonis, entered bearing flowers for her. He called her "Little Lotte". She seemed glad to see him, and knew his name. Hadn't she said something to Meg Giry that afternoon that she and the new patron been childhood sweethearts? He had been too busy sabotaging Carlotta so that Christine could take her rightful place as the Opera's star for the new owners to pay attention to the patron. But he was ready to pay attention now.

'They are obviously very close, for not having seen each other since childhood," he murmured. "And he is **_very_** sure of himself, telling her to be ready in two minutes! We'll see about that!" He stalked from the mirror, using one of the many hidden passages to reach the outer hallway, waiting until he heard the Vicomte hurry from the dressing room.

He nodded slightly to Mme. Giry, who was keeping watch as he locked the door and gave her the key for safe keeping. She would see to it the door was unlocked later on, so that by morning it would be well known that the opera's new star was missing. He stalked back to the dressing room as the opera house began shutting down for the evening.

He was startled upon his return to find that Christine was no where in sight of the mirror. He wondered if he'd missed seeing her leave with the Vicomte. No, Mme Giry would have told him if that had been the case. He relaxed when he saw her emerge from behind the screen, tying the belt to her dressing gown. 'Good girl! Still, you need to be reminded not to disobey me!"

He opened the concealed panel in the mirror ever so slightly, so that just enough wind blew through it to cause the candles room to go out. The only light was now coming from a single oil lantern, whose flame danced in its hourglass covering.

"Insolent boy!" he roared. "This slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" Good, she is surprised and frightened. That's as it should be. "Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"

Christine begged him to understand her weakness, begged him to share with her the glory of his voice and presence. She wanted to know from HIM that she had pleased him with her performance. No rose this time would be enough. He'd ignored the same request made by her and Meg Giry, as he never intended for anyone but Christine and Mme. Giry to see him. But now, he would grant her request.

"Flattering child, " he replied, more gently. "You shall know me. See why in darkness I hide. Look in the mirror before you, I am there inside."

She turned to the mirror, and he lifted his torch to allow the light to reveal him. Part of the mirror still showed her reflection. And next to it, she saw him for the first time. It looked as if he were standing beside her!

"Come to the Angel of Music," he intoned hypnotically, crooning the phrase over and over. His hand appeared to her, as if coming out of the mirror. She touched it, and he gently drew her threw the opening.

**_This_** was the moment he'd anticipated for years. Let the fool out there shake the doorknob and knock till his knuckles bled! The hallucinogenic potion he'd used on the rose was taking effect, and Christine neither knew nor cared that her childhood friend was outside the door. If all went as planned, she would never care about the Vicomte again as thePhantom guided her to the boat that would take them to his underground lair.

_**The Best Laid Plans **_

Erik sat on the steps beside Christine, already regretting his angry outburst. He should have foreseen her curiosity, and not allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. He should have been more watchful when she came to stand beside him, and touched his face!

'How stupid of me!' he thought to himself, his shoulders slumped in dejection. 'She's just a child, and a curious one at that. I shouldn't have gotten so angry with her for wanting to see what lay behind the mask!' He sighed wearily, "Oh, Christine."

She was still lying where she'd fallen when he shoved her away, tears streaming down her face, the mask lying next to her. He wanted to reach out to her, comfort her, but he didn't dare. He didn't think he could handle seeing she shrink from him in fear of another outburst, and he KNEW he couldn't deal with being rejected again.

They sat a moment, each breathing heavily as if they'd run a marathon. Slowly, Christine picked up the mask, and raised herself to her knees so that she was closer to him. Wordlessly, she handed the mask over to him. He turned away from her to place it over the disfigured part of his face, and at that moment she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"Master, I'm so sorry," she whispered, "I –"

Erik tensed at the unexpected embrace, but thrilled that she would _willingly_ embrace him so soon after his harsh treatment of her. The words, however, chilled his heart. 'PITY? She feels only PITY for me!' He tried to remove her arms from around his neck, surprised that she didn't flinch from his touch. A low moan of despair escaped his lips as he strained to control his anger and hurt. 'I could've accepted anything else from her but PITY!' He nearly choked on his rage.

Christine felt his muscles tense under her hands, and her embrace tightened so that he wouldn't move away from her. "Master," she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. "Please listen to me. It's obvious that people have always responded to your looks by recoiling in fear and revulsion. That's why you've hidden yourself away from the world. It's hurt you terribly that I unmasked you. I'm sorry to have caused you so much pain. It's poor repayment for all you've given to me."

Erik couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'She doesn't feel pity? But what is it she does feel? An obligation to her teacher? A duty? Is THAT all I am to her?' He stopped trying to move from her embrace, accepting it for the apology it was, and reached one hand to touch the clasped hands that lay on top of his chest. Her hands were ice cold, and they trembled beneath his hand. He gave those hands what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

"Master, dare I ask your forgiveness?"

"Dare I ask _yours_ for my outrageous conduct?"

"But, I took from you what was not mine to take, " she replied. "You had every right to be mad at me. How can I not forgive you?"

"Then," he replied gently, "How can I not forgive YOU, child?" Did he imagine it, or did she flinch when he called her 'child'? "I had intended one day to share my disfigurement with you, but only when I felt you were ready." He added to himself 'Scaring you was NEVER my desire.' To frighten those ballet tarts, Buquet. and Carlotta was one thing he enjoyed. But he didn't want Christine to fear him. Ever.

He gently moved out of her embrace and stood up. Christine also stood and moved close to him again, laying one hand against the unmarred side of his face. His eyes burned into hers, searching for answers, but there were none readily available. He read confusion, but no fear. There was sympathy for him, yes, but it was the sympathy one feels for another who is hurting. There was regret, and perhaps, though he might have just been wishing, something else lurking farther within her.

How he longed to enfold her in his arms and hold her close to him, but he didn't dare do anything that would sever the very tenuous rapport they shared at this moment. He was also afraid to open himself up to further disappointment. He moved a few steps from her.

"It is part of a woman's nature to be curious, and you are no exception. I don't intend to make you my prisoner." He thought to himself, "How can I forgive you in one breath, yet keep you here out of fear you'll never willingly come back the next?'

Christine remained where he'd left her, the one hand still slightly raised as if he'd never moved from her. Disappointment showed in her face. "I deserved your anger, master. Father always told me I should ask before looking into other people's things. It was a lesson I should have learned." She dropped her hand to her side with a little sigh.

"Come, we must go," he responded. "Those fools who run my theater will be missing you."

She didn't reply; her expression begging him to let her stay. He wanted to succumb to that plea! He had dreamed for years of her sharing his lair with him, but keeping her with him was expecting too much of her too soon. If only she hadn't looked! But, it was too late. The emotional wounds his outburst inflicted were still fresh. In some ways, she was older than her years, but in others, she was still just a child, and he must work carefully to win her. He'd realized that much when she fainted at the sight of the mannequin that resembled her in the wedding dress.

Therefore, he motioned for her to the boat, being careful not to make a move to touch her, except to help her into the boat.

_**Revelations and Surprises**_

The last thing Christine recalled upon waking up and seeing the black sheer drape over the swan bed, was seeing her own face looking at her through a wedding veil. How strange this entire evening had been! From the triumph of her appearance on stage, to finally coming face to face with her teacher, the Angel of Music who had guided her all these years!

But, he was not the Angel sent to her by her father. This was a man in a mask, and a man who very obviously wanted her to belong to him! Why else would he have a life size mannequin of her dressed in a wedding gown and veil! She felt confused and frightened, for the voice she'd known all these years as her guide and her guardian was neither. He cared for her; that much was obvious, though she couldn't imagine why he should. And did she care anything at all for him?

'I don't even know who he is, or what he looks like,' she thought to herself, as she crept into the main part of the lair. He was sitting at the organ, playing music that she'd never heard before. He looked up at her, then returned to his music. Sometime after her faint, her shoes and hose had been removed, but that meant little to her now. The music he played was so intoxicating to her. She moved closer to him, and the music stopped.

"Who is that man in the shadows? Who is that man in the mask?" her hands caressed the face in front of her; such a beautiful face! Only that half white mask marred the handsome features. His eyes were closed in pure joy.

Gently, almost reverently, she lifted the mask to reveal terribly scared and wrinkled skin; somewhat reddened in places. She had just a glimpse of that face, but it was enough. Without her thinking of it, her lips parted and a small gasp of shock and surprise came out.

It was enough to enrage him. He leapt to his feet, pushing her roughly from him. "Damn you! You little prying Padora!"

She landed on the floor against a wall, watching in fright as he ripped a cloth from a mirror. "You little viper! Is this what you wanted to see!" he roared angrily, turning abruptly from the mirror with one hand hiding the disfigured area. He marched away from her, hurt and upset. She knew she deserved every name he called her, and he now intended to keep her prisoner. For how long?

"Fear can turn to love, " he added, a sob in his voice. This man was, after all, her teacher! He had taught her voice to sing, and had been her friend from their very first day. He was a man, but not a whole man by 'polite' society's standards. Did looks _really _matter? He had treated her with nothing but kindness since the day she heard his voice in the darkness all those years ago. What kind of shallow person was she to be repulsed by something he couldn't help?

Tears streamed down her face. How could she have been so careless and cruel to him? What a repayment for years of mentoring and guidance. He'd been strict with her as well, but then, all good teachers were strict. She had needed someone to put restrictions on her after all the indulgence her father had shown her, and the Angel of Music had given her that discipline whenever she needed it.

He was coming around the steps now, still talking to her, still covering the ruined side of his face with his hand. He wasn't so angry now. His shoulders slumped as he sat on the top step, being careful not to move too quickly or sit too close to her. "Not that I don't deserve his distrust," she thought. "I don't deserve his kindness, either."

"Oh, Christine!" he sighed. The sob in his voice, the broken-hearted dejection was more than she could stand. Anger she could deal with, but this heart wrenching, soulful sadness was different. It made her more ashamed, and in her shame, she wanted to make amends. But how?

"Dummy! Give him back his dignity! Hand him the mask!" came her angry thought. She picked up the mask, and held it out to him, raising to her knees as she did so. He took it from her and turned aside. Tentatively, hesitantly, she reached out her arms and encircled his shoulders, which were trembling, whether from pent up rage or from sadness, she couldn't tell. She didn't care why he trembled. She only wanted to relieve his pain.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered softly. "Oh great!" she added to herself, feeling his chest tense under her grasp. "Just great! Drive the knife in deeper, why don't you? NOW he thinks you feel sorry for him, not that you're apologizing for hurting him!" She felt him try to move away, so she tightened her embrace. "Master," she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. "Please listen to me. The world has always responded to your face by recoiling in fear and revulsion. And because of that, you've hidden yourself away from the world. I've hurt you terribly by reacting the way I did, and I'm sorry for having caused you so much pain after all you've done for me."

"He looks like he doesn't believe you," she berated herself. "Why should he? How in the world do I get him to understand it's not pity that I feel for HIM, but for what happened to make his face this way? I don't know how to make the words happen!"

She tightened her embrace in desperation, wishing that her gesture would say what words failed to do for her. She was shivering and cold. To her surprise, she felt his hand on both of hers that were crossed on his chest, and she felt that hand squeeze hers reassuringly.

"Master, dare I ask your forgiveness?"

"Dare I ask_ yours_ for my outrageous behavior?"

"But, I took from you what was not my right to take, " she replied. "You had every right to be mad at me. How can I not forgive you?"

"Then," he replied gently, "How can I not forgive YOU, child?" She stiffened at his use of the word 'child'. That from a man who had her likeness clothed in a wedding gown? She felt even more confused than before. "I had intended one day to share my disfigurement with you, but only when I felt you were ready."

Though his voice was kind, she hated having him refer to her as a child Maybe compared to him she _was_ younger, but certainly no child. He always referred to her as "child" whenever they were together, but certainly he could recognize that she was more than a child, if that mannequin was any indication!

He gently moved out of her embrace and stood up. Christine also stood and moved close to him again, laying one hand against the unmarred side of his face. His eyes burned into hers, searching for answers, but she wasn't sure what he was asking of her. She felt confused, but she wasn't as frightened as before. She felt sympathy for his plight, just as she would for any human that was in pain. She regretted hurting him as well, and she felt other feelings, intense feelings, that she didn't know how to describe.

She felt disappointed when he disengaged from her embrace. It had felt like something was bringing them closer, but then he seemed to shut a door on her. "It is part of a woman's nature to be curious, and you are no exception. I don't intend to make you my prisoner."

Christine remained standing where he left her, hand still slightly raised as if he'd never moved from her. Disappointment showed in her face. "I deserved your anger, master. Father always told me I should ask before looking into other people's things. It was a lesson I should have learned." She dropped her hand to her side with a little sigh.

"Come, we must go," he responded, holding a hand out to her. "Those fools who run my theater will be missing you."

She didn't reply; her expression begging him to let her stay. How she wished he would agree. But no, she'd done enough damage for one day. Silently, she followed him to the boat

**_Out of the Darkness_**

Whatever the Phantom had used to make her believe the passage was well lit by torches along the walls had obviously worn off, for the only illumination now was the small lantern at the bow of the boat. The darkness and the silence unnerved Christine even more, so that she felt the need to speak. She didn't even know his name, and to call him Angel seemed ludicrous now, so she addressed him as she always had in the past.

"Master, why do you call this "your opera house" when it now belongs to Mssrs Firmin and Andre, and Msr Lefevre before that?"

"Because, dear child, it IS 'mine'. I have been here longer than they, and I have made it mine." He seemed amused by her inquiry.

"Might I be so bold as to ask how that came to be?"

"You may, but I reserve the answer to another time; when I feel you are ready to know. I think you've been through enough tonight, and my tale is not a pleasant bedtime story to tell."

She bristled inwardly. There he goes again! Treating her as thought she was still seven, and still feeling lost without her father to guide her. Why was he so willingly to think of her as an adult in some ways, but talk to her as if she were a child?

"Fine. Another time. But surely you'll explain to me WHY, during all these years, you let me believe you were the Angel my father promised, " she retorted spiritedly. "You owe me THAT courtesy, at the very least. Obviously, you are no angel!"

He laughed, but it was cold, almost humorless laugh. "True. 'Angel' is not a word most would use to describe me. You are right, I do owe an explanation. Do you recall your very first night in the ballet de corps dormitory?"

"How could I forget it? My entire world had been shattered by the death of my father, and I was all alone in the world, until I heard your voice."

_/flashback/ _

Night had fallen, and her father lay six feet beneath the ground in a simple pine box. It was all that could be afforded for him. Despite Gustave Daae's notoriety as a violinist, money had always been in short supply, even when they had patrons to support them.

With her mother and father gone, Christine Daae was orphaned, and had no other relatives. Fortunately, her father's last patron was able to secure a place for her at the Opera Populaire's ballet de corps, and she would be living in the dormitory there, learning to be a ballerina. Maybe, she hoped, continuing her vocal education as well. It was a better future than that of living in the city's orphanage until she came of marrying age. At least her future was a little bright, even though her world as she knew it was lost forever.

She looked up at the woman carrying the small valise containing all her worldly possessions, kindly holding her hand as they walked to the imposing Opera Populaire. Mme. Giry, recently a widow, had told her she had a child about her age named Meg, also a ballet student. Mme Giry, once a ballerina herself, was now in charge of the ballet de corps, and was now Christine's guardian. Brusque, but not uncaring, Mme Giry looked upon her new charge with a sad smile.

"I know, _Cherie, _your heart is broken. Time will heal. In the meantime, you will not be alone. Meg and I shall be your new family."

Christine tried to hug those comforting words to her as she lay in her dormitory bed later that night, wishing those words were her loving father's arms around her. Not wanting to disturb the sleeping girls near her with her tears and sobs, she crept out of bed to the chapel. There, she collapsed in a miserable heap in front of her father's picture, which she'd placed in the chapel a few hours earlier. Weeping great tears and choking back tormented sobs for her loss.

The Phantom had heard whispers of the new arrival, and his curiosity had been piqued by the gossip. He knew she was an orphan, the only one in the dormitory, and a part of him felt for her. In a strange way, he too, had been orphaned at a young age, though his parents had chosen to remove themselves from him. He envied her for having known a parent's love instead of being rejected. He'd never cried for them the way this little girl was crying for her father. It tore at his heart and without realizing what he was doing, he called to her.

"Child, child!" came a soft, male voice. The voice seemed to echo all around the room, yet was not so loud that the dormitory girls could hear. "Why are you crying child?"

Christine raised her tear stained face to her father's picture. It wasn't her father's well loved voice, but it WAS a male voice, and was speaking to her. Ever since her father had died, she waited in anticipation for the promised Angel of Music to appear to her, only to be disappointed by the continuing silence. Had the Angel finally come to her? .

"Who are you? Who calls me?"

"Never mind that for now. What is wrong," came the reply. "You cry as if your world was shattered into a million pieces."

"My father is dead; I am an orphan," she replied simply. "I have no one now, except this place. My father promised that he would send the Angel of Music to me when he went to Heaven. But the Angel hasn't come, and I am all alone, despite what Mme. Giry says. She's just being nice."

There was a long silence, so long that Christine feared the voice had left her alone too. "Are you still there?" she called.

"I am here," came the reply.

"Who ARE you?"

There was another, but shorter silence, and then the voice announced, "I am the Angel of Music your father promised you. I will be your teacher and your guide in this new life. I will guard you and keep you safe. But, you must show yourself worthy of my guidance and my gifts. Are you willing, child?"

"Oh, yes, Angel! I am!" came the child's grateful cry. Her face, so red and tear stained earlier, was lit by an inner joy, and her smile was radiant. From his stance in the shadows, the Phantom nearly gasped at the beauty that smile gave to the little girl, and he had a glimpse of the beauty she would grow to be. He must be careful, and remain hidden, until the time was right.

He started to sing a lullaby. One he had the gypsy mothers sing to their children. He sang it softly, using the gypsy's language. Though she didn't know the words, the tune must've been familiar, because she sang along, and her voice did not hold the shrill pitch of most children's voices. It held a hint of greatness, and with his help, it WOULD be great.

Christine felt the Angel's voice comfort and soothe her, and soon she feel asleep. As he let the last words drop off into the quiet, he was rewarded with Christine's deep breathing and he saw that her tense body had relaxed. He quietly stepped from the shadows, lifted the little girl into his arms, and quietly carried her into the dormitory, tucking her into her bed much as a doting father would do.

No one in the dormitory, not even Meg Giry sleeping in the bed next to Christine's, stirred at his presence. He stroked Christine's dark hair, heard her sigh in contentment, then walked quietly from the room.

**_/end flashback/ _**

"I decided that night to become your Angel of Music, " the Phantom continued, "To not accept the role would have crushed your spirit, and caused you disappointment that I could not bear to cause. You had already lost everything that mattered, I saw no harm in letting you hold on to one precious memory. So I became your teacher." In a softer voice, so soft she had to strain to hear him, he added, "And I hoped to also be, at the very least, your friend, "

Christine remained quiet for some time, making the Phantom wonder if he had hurt her anew with his admission. Finally, she broke the silence. "I remember that night. You took away the hurt and the loneliness of the days that had preceded it. I felt safe for the first time in a long time. I remember the tune, but the words weren't the same. What does it mean?" Under her breath, she added, "I wish you would sing it for me. It would take away some of my fear of this darkness."

Slowly, softly, each word dropped into the darkness, his voice wrapping her in a blanket of warmth and security.

_Child of the wilderness _

_Born into emptiness_

_Learn to be lonely _

_Learn to live a live without love..._

_...Learn to be lonely,_

_Learn how to love _

_life that is lived_

_Alone._

By the time the lullaby ended, the boat reached a docking point, but it was not the same one they'd used earlier.

"We can't use the same route as before," the Phantom explained. "There are many passages behind these walls; you may yet learn of them. For now, I shall be your guide." He took a lighted torch in hand and offered his arm to her, as opposed to trying to hold her hand as he had on their earlier journey.

Wordlessly, she accepted his arm, and they followed the hallway to a door. He placed the torch in a receptacle, and listened at the door for a moment, placing his finger against his lips, he opened it a bit, looked out, and then gestured for her to follow him. They emerged into the chapel.

"You have experienced much and need to rest. I have requested the managers have you portray the lead role, the Countess, in the new production of _Il Muto _tonight." He raised his hand to stifle her exclamation. "No, don't protest. I am, if nothing else,_ still_ your teacher, and it is necessary for your career to progress. Carlotta is well suited to the role of the page boy, the silent one, and this has also been relayed to the managers. You will do well tonight. Now, go rest."

He gently removed her hand from his arm and stepped back, watching as she turned from him to obey his demands. He had deliberately reverted to his role of teacher, and he was glad to see that she was able to respond to him as a student. He knew she was overwhelmed by what she had learned; she needed time, and sleep, to absorb it all. He would give her that time by guiding her career.

Christine turned at the doorway, her expression questioning.

"There is no time for talk right now, child. You need rest. I have instructed Mme Giry to inform the managers of your return, and to watch out for you tonight. We **_will_** meet again. Now go."

He stepped back through the door they'd entered, and made sure that she heard the lock turn. Should she think of following after him, she'd be lost in the passages; locking the door seemed the best prevention to that possibly. He doubted that she'd try to find other passages on her own.

Christine watched the Phantom leave her, and heard the decisive clicking of the bolt. 'Guess that settles that,' she thought to herself. "It's obvious he doesn't want me following after him, and I'm certainly not going to beg!" She turned, and gasped with surprise, as Mme Giry was standing behind her.

"Come, you need to rest in preparation for your new role tonight," Mme Giry said, gesturing for Christine to proceed her to the dormitory. "I shall let the Vicomte know that you are safe. It is all that I can do for him at this point."

"Mme Giry, what is--"

She shook her head. "No, Cherie. No time to talk right now. Save your questions for a later time. The Angel sees, and knows what is happening. He will be most displeased to know you are not obeying his wishes."

Like an obedient child, Christine followed Mme Giry to the dormitory, but she wasn't going to drop the matter. "You know who he is, don't you? You've seen the face behind the mask.."

"Yes, " Mme Giry replied. "He is a man, but not 'just' a man. He is many things; architect, magician, musician. He is very intelligent, and he has taken an interest in you. It is best not to disobey him. Now, rest."

Mme Giry turned away, and gestured to her daughter Meg to follow her, leaving Christine to her own devices. Christine lay on her bed but didn't expect to sleep; there was too much to think about. A few minutes later, she was sound asleep.

_**NOTES**_

Meg and Mme Giry found the managers, along with Carlotta, Piangi, and the Vicomte in the main hall, discussing the notes they'd received from "OG". None of them were very happy by the directives they'd received; all but the Vicomte were extremely angry and annoyed.

"Miss Daae has returned, " Mme Giry announced.

"None the worse for wear," replied Andre.

Not to be outdone, Firmin added, "I trust her midnight oil is well and truly burned."

"May I see her?" The Vicomte asked. He was the only one who seemed relieved that Christine Daae was back.

"She will see no one."

"She needed rest." Meg added.

Ignoring her daughter, Mme Giry continued, "Here, I have a note."

"Let me see it," the assembled responded as one.

"Please," entreated the Vicomte.

Firmin snatched the note from Mme Giry and began reading "Gentlemen, I have sent you several amiable notes. . ."

Mme Giry waited patiently. She knew the content of the note; as the Phantom had sent similar comments for her with the one she delivered. She didn't know much of what had transpired after the Phantom locked the dressing room door, but from both their expressions when he brought Christine back, things had not gone as he'd anticipated. A disappointed Phantom was not a good thing. That made her nervous.

The latest note resulted in the anticipated tumult from the managers; and righteous indignation from Carlotta and Piangi. The Vicomte, however, seemed genuinely concerned over Christine's welfare. Mme Giry watched as the managers groveled once again to win their diva over, while Carlotta as usual overplayed her role of the martyr.

The Vicomte asked again if he could just see Christine for a moment, but Mme Giry knew the Phantom was still keeping watch and refused his plea. The Phantom had given her explicit instructions on this matter, and she was going to obey them. She shook her head in dissent and turned away.

The managers, Carlotta, and her entourage moved off to her dressing room, Mme Giry following to see what would happen.

The managers seemed determined to rebel against the Phantom, and she had a feeling that terrible things were going to result from their disobedience. They were not the first to take umbrage at working "for" an unseen and demanding personage as OG, but they would not be successful. They, like those who had gone before, would learn that it was better to obey the Phantom than fight him. When they worked WITH him, life was much more pleasant within the opera house. .

"The Angel sees, the Angel knows all that is happening, and all that you do. It is NOT wise to disobey him," Mme Giry warned. The managers waved her off as if she were a pesky fly.

'I've done my duty,' she murmured to herself, and to the Phantom. 'I am not responsible for what happens next," and she walked away to check on Christine. She knew the Phantom lurked behind Carlotta's mirror and was hearing everything the managers said. He was not going to be happy, and she didn't want to be in the path of his retribution.

The Vicomte, elated that Christine was safe, but disappointed that he could not see such for himself, reviewed the note he'd received from the Opera Ghost. "The Angel of Music has her under his wing," he read. "Make no attempt to see her again." Written like a jealous lover, instead of a teacher! What manner of man would act like this? Commanding that things be done HIS way, not allowing dissent? And who did this teacher think he was to command that he not see Christine?

Raoul wasn't about to allow an unseen rival to tell him when or IF he could see Christine. He'd be there tonight, and what's more, he intended to be present in box five, in order to meet first hand this so-called Angel of Music for himself.

PREPARING FOR _IL MUTO_

Christine felt quite refreshed after five hours sleep. But she was still confused over the events of the last few hours. What kind of man would show as much interest in a woman as her teacher had shown her, only to turn back to teacher/student mode when emotions ran high? Was her teacher truly interested in her romantically or was the image of her face in a wedding veil just another one of his illusions? It had seemed so real!

Her mind raced over these questions time and again, but she could never come to a satisfactory conclusion. It was obvious to her that he cared more for her than as a student; otherwise, why the figure in the wedding dress/veil? She was more convinced than ever that she didn't dream that; otherwise, the rest of the events would be a dream as well. It only made sense that the dress was real, as were her teacher's feelings for her.

Did she return those feelings? THAT was the big question. She cared for her teacher, just as she would cared for Mme Giry and Meg, her only family. But, did she have the feelings for her teacher, a man whose name she did not yet know, that would sustain a relationship, even a marriage?

She knew that his face played a major part in the equation from his point of view; how others reacted to his face had shaped his reactions and behaviors with the world. It was a dark view that he possessed, and he was very quick to protect himself from further upset, except where she had been concerned.

Yet, how could he expect her NOT to be surprised at his features when she first viewed them? Even if she'd been properly prepared, would she not have been momentarily startled? She had to admit that she would have reacted, prepared or not. But, she wouldn't have been subjected to a temper as wild as a sudden summer thunderstorm, either. But, on the other hand, had he been allowed to prepare her for the site of his disfigurement, he wouldn't have been so upset over her reaction, because he, too, would have been better prepared.

It was obvious that his view of the world was different from hers, and she wasn't sure she wanted to live several feet below the surface of the earth, even for love! It never occurred to her that he might, for her sake, actually consider leaving his underground home for a life above with her. Just the thought of living under the opera house for the rest of her life gave her a feeling of being closed in that she didn't like one bit.

'Fear can turn to love, " he'd told her in his tirade. She supposed that were true, but fear was also a very strong emotion, almost as strong as love, as she wasn't sure that she could overcome her fear of his temper as easily as she could his face. The only one on one relationships she'd ever had were the warm and gentle love given by her father, and her childhood relationship with Raoul.

Raoul. A small smile lighted her face as she thought of him, so happy to see her the night of the gala. He'd never uttered a harsh word to her when they were children; she doubted he would ever treat anyone harshly, unless they deserved it. Certainly he wouldn't go into a rage at an innocent act, as had her teacher! Gentle, loving Raoul. How worried he must be for her! She must get word to him that she was ok.

"Where are you going so close to curtain?" queried Mme Giry, meeting Christine in the hallway outside the dormitory. Christine was securing a cape around her shoulders in preparation for leaving the opera house.

"I need to get word to someone that I am all right," she replied.

"The Vicomte has been informed of your return. You **must **prepare yourself for the role of the silent pageboy. The managers have decided to..._overlook_ your teacher's casting suggestion. Carlotta is playing the lead. You might have plenty of time to speak with the Vicomte perhaps, AFTER the performance."

Christine reluctantly followed her guardian to the wardrobe area, to prepare for the debut of _Il Muto._

Erik was annoyed. His instructions to the managers were very clear concerning his expectations for_ Il Muto_ and Christine's career. Were they so blinded by their lust for money that they couldn't see Christine had more talent in her little finger than Carlotta had in her entire head? Ego does not equate with talent, never had, and never will, despite the fact that Carlotta had a great deal of ego.

Erik knew he was going to have to punish them where it would hurt them the most, in the pocket. He went into his chemistry area, and had soon concocted a potion that looked like the spray Carlotta used to loosen her vocal chords, enabling her to hit the higher notes. The potion would look and taste the same, but the end result would make the Prima Donna sound more like a dying frog than a trained operatic singer. The managers would have no choice but to put Christine in for Carlotta.

"No other choice, that is, than to refund a full house," he laughed humourlessly.

Perhaps he wouldn't need the potion. The managers might still see the wisdom of his directions to them. But he intended to be prepared, just in case.

The presentation of_ Il Muto_, a comedic opera, was being well received by the audience, Firmin and Andre were pleased by the evening's success so far. They had been a trifle nervous over the Opera Ghost's warning of dire consequences for not following his instructions, but as the evening continued to be uneventful, they allowed themselves to relax, and bask in their apparent triumph.

Both men were in agreement that previous managers had allowed this entity far to much leeway for far too long with no return on the investment. They did not intend to blindly follow some unseen extortionist's demands; they'd worked too hard for too long to achieve their status, and no one else was going to benefit from their hard work except for them.

Indeed, it appeared to them a firm and united stance against the so-called 'Phantom of the Opera' was the best approach. By the end of the evening, they anticipated his stranglehold on their business would be broken. Instead, they were about to reap the fruits of the willful disobedience they had sown.

Erik peered through a small window built into the upper balcony of the opera house; where painters had colored in bright blue sky and puffy white clouds. This balcony was little used, but the maids worked to keep it clean and dust free, just in case the opera house ever had a complete 'standing room only' taking that would require the use of that area.

He'd already checked box five, and was perturbed to find the managers had sold it out to the Vicomte, of all people. He took it as a personal insult against him, as only the Vicomte sat in the box, in_ his_ chair! That was a small annoyance, but one that the managers would pay for quite dearly.

It had been a small matter for him to exchange Carlotta's spray for his own concoction, and he had disposed of her potion in the lavatory before heading to his box. As far as he was concerned, no one had seen him slip behind stage, make the exchange, and then slip out.

His heart ached to see his beloved Christine valiantly portray the silent pageboy. He watched as she endured the clumsy pawing of the small male cast member that was Piangi's favorite friend. 'The little fool! How dare he treat her like a harlot in the street!" he growled to himself.

He remembered that the incident had been written into the plot, giving some unnecessary comedy to the scene, and willed himself to remain calm. He slipped onto the balcony to wait for the moment to make his presence known.

"Serafina, away with this pretense!" sang Carlotta. "Kiss me, in my husband's absence!"

"Did I not say that box five was to be kept empty for me?" He used the natural acoustics of the balcony to allow his voice to seem to echo through the auditorium, causing the attendees to turn their heads in surprise and alarm. His voice had the controlled growl of a predator, ready to pounce on its' prey..

"It's him, the Phantom of the Opera!" he read-lip Meg Giry exclaim. He also saw Christine's face whiten in shocked recognition, saw her exclaim "It's _him_!"

Damn! He'd forgotten that she'd heard his angry tones in the lair only a few hours before, and she recognized the voice. Now she's know that he was, indeed, the notorious Opera Ghost. Too late to worry about that, however. What was done, was done, and could be remedied later. He'd see to that.

"Your part is silent, little toad!" Carlotta snapped at her rival, using the disruption to toddle to the wings for some throat spray from her maid.

'Ah, ha!' Erik smiled grimly. "A toad, madam?" He added, his figure obscured to those below by the chandelier. "Perhaps it is YOU who are the toad!"

Carlotta fanned herself and instructed the conductor to begin the musical phrase again. "Serafina, away with this pretense! Kiss me in my master's CRRRROOOAAAAK!"

The unlady-like sound that emitted from Carlotta's throat sounded like a cross between a dying amphibian and a lusty beer-induced belch. The conductor waved his baton, the music began again.

"Poor fool, he makes me CROAAAAAK! UUUULPPPP! URRRRPPP!" Now all Carlotta could emit were more grotesque noises. She cried out for her maid and fled the stage, leaving chaos in her wake and laughter amidst the audience. .

At the first unseemly noise from their diva, Messrs. Firmin and Andre raced from their box. They had to do something, and fast, otherwise, they would be refunding quite a few thousand francs to unhappy patrons.

"We apologize for the interruption," they stammered and stuttered to the audience. "The performance will resume in 10 minutes time, with Miss Christine Daae singing the role of the Countess!" Their announcement was met with roars of approval and thunderous applause.

Mme Giry led the surprised and shocked Christine from the stage to Carlotta's dressing room, handing her the signature red rose tied with a black ribbon. "He is most pleased with you tonight," she said, helping the stunned girl into Carlotta's gown.

Christine couldn't find the words to make a reply. Her teacher, the man who wanted to marry her was the _Opera Ghost_? She could hardly comprehend this news. She had heard all the stories of the Opera Ghost, dismissing them as so much gossip. Apparently the gossip held more truth than fable. As she recalled all the stories she'd dismissed as flights of fancy, she grew more and more upset. How could she EVER be able to live with someone capable of such terrible things? No matter how much good he had done for her and for others, that didn't cancel out the fact that he had a cruel, heartless streak. That fact frightened her, for it could take very little for that cruelty to be unleashed on her. She'd already managed once to arouse his terrible temper!

The black ribboned rose quivered in her hands, which suddenly felt chilled to the bone.

Content that his plan to advance Christine's singing career was well in motion, Erik departed the balcony, returning to the secret passages he knew so well. He wanted to be backstage when she sang, and to see firsthand the audience reacting to her talent.

Unbeknownst to him, one of the stagehands, Joseph Buquet, had witnessed the exchange of Carlotta's throat sprays. Instead of alerting the maid, Buquet had tried to follow the notorious Opera Ghost, to apprehend him if he could. Buquet dreamed often of capturing and turning in the Phantom of the Opera; he believed that would not only impress the new mangers with him, but the capture might possibly result in a handsome reward for ridding the opera house of it's poltergeist.

Unfortunately for him, Buquet was not very experienced with the passages and trap doors of the opera house, and lost track of his prey. When he heard Erik's voice from the balcony near the chandelier, he raced along the hallways leading to it, just in time to see Erik close a well disguised door behind him.

Buguet rushed to the door, opened it, and slipped inside, catching a glimpse of a door closing with a quiet 'click'. He opened the door, and saw a shadow receding along an inner corridor. He hurried after the shadow, being careful not to make noise, his mind racing with images of wealth and fame of his own.

Erik continued his way along the passages to the backstage area, and climbed to the upper rafters. There, he could see and hear the remainder of the opera, but not be seen by anyone. It wasn't as comfortable as his own seat in box five, but it would do.

An odor of cheap wine drifted to him; he was being followed! Highly unusual for that to happen, but he could tell by the aroma of the fermented fruit coupled with unwashed person that his pursuer was Buquet. The stage hand was often a problem for Erik, always making up wild stories about his appearance so the ballet tarts would squeal in alarm, or trying to catch Erik and turn him in to the management.

In the past, Erik had considered Buquet a minor pest, but he couldn't ignore the stagehand any longer. He knew now of the back passages to the opera house, making him a liability, and liabilities were best disposed of quickly. It was doubtful someone of Buquet's demeanor would be greatly missed, and it would certainly be quite a lesson for the managers about obedience.

Erik removed his Punjab lasso from the lining of his cape, where he kept it in case it was needed. He didn't have to check the knots to make sure it was ready for use. The Punjab lasso was like an old friend, always ready when he needed it.

Buquet was looking frustrated; Erik had slipped into the shadows and out of sight. Erik stepped silently onto a catwalk, waiting with grim amusement for Buquet to get a little closer. Buquet was looking over his shoulder, just in case the 'opera ghost' was sneaking up behind him, and not paying attention to what was in front of him. Erik stood still, holding the lasso. Waiting.

Buquet sensed, rather than saw, an obstacle in front of him. His eyes widened with fright to see the masked figure right in front of his nose. His glance moved to the Punjab lasso swinging slightly in Erik's hand and Buquet starting running back the way he'd come, Erik close behind.

Below them, the dancers were hastily assembling to perform their dance, uprooted from Act III to fill the time it would take for Christine to change costumes. The dance resembled a kind of organized chaos, as the sheep were stubbornly resisting their handler's attempts to get them onto the stage.

Buquet continued trying to elude capture; moving along the catwalks, looking for safety. As well as Buquet knew the catwalks, however, Erik knew them even better, and kept turning up where the stagehand least expected him to be.

Sweat poured down Buquet's face; he wasn't used to so much exertion, and his alcohol use was telling on him. His breathing was labored as he rushed along the catwalks, away from the Phantom and Death.

At one point, he thought that perhaps he _would_ escape, as he was across the stage from Erik, who was standing on another catwalk, watching and mimicking Buquet's every move. When Buquet went right, there moved Erik. A twist to the left, and Erik moved the same way. It was as if Erik was able to read the stagehand's mind!

Buquet decided to just make a run for it, and launched himself to one side, making for whatever safety he could find anywhere he could find it. Maybe, if he got to the stage floor, he could find safety with the maids and other stage hands. The opera ghost would never try anything with witnesses around!

Buquet's relief at reaching the ladder was short lived, however, as a rough textured rope descended over his throat, and began tightening over his windpipe, cutting off air. He feebly struggled against the rope closing over his neck, but he was too out of shape to do any good.

He never saw more than a glimpse of the face belonging to the hands holding that rope. If he had, he would have realized that the face didn't have yellow, parchment-like skin, and that there was, indeed, a nose to the face as well. In fact, with the exception of a half mask of white, the face looked as normal as his own. But, it was not to be, and Buquet's body went limp.

Erik exhaled in satisfaction. He had no worries now about Buquet blabbing about the passages and his lair being discovered. He carried Buquet's lifeless body out to the catwalk, and substituted the Punjab lasso for another rope, hanging from the rafters. Looping the rope around Buquet's neck, he adjusted it until it looked as though Buquet had gotten caught up in the rope, and in his drunken state, easily believed by the alcohol on his breath, had slipped and accidentally hanged himself.

But, Erik had misjudged the actual length of the rope, so that instead of Buquet's body hanging in the upper rafters, it plummeted to the stage floor. The ballet girls and audience shrieked in terror.

"Damn!" Erik cursed his carelessness, but used the bedlam below to make good his escape before anyone could look up and finger him as the cause of Buquet's demise. He heard Firmin and Andre plea with the audience to remain calm, it was just an accident as he fled to the rooftop to think.

Christine and Mme Giry heard the screams from the stage, and rushed out to see what had happened. Upon learning that Buquet was dead, she felt more terror and upset than ever. She recalled stories that the Opera Ghost had "done away" with people before. Could it be possible that her teacher was capable of committing murder?

Not that Christine was sad for Buquet; she'd never appreciated his leering smiles at her that made her feel dirty. But she couldn't help but wonder what kind of person, even one as disfigured as her teacher, could kill _anyone_, even someone like Buquet.

Still holding the blackribboned rose, she rushed along the backstage, needing to get some fresh air and to calm her mind.

"Are you alright?" came a familiar voice in front of her.

"Raoul!" She was definitely happy to see him. At least HE made sense in a world that didn't seem to make any sense any more.

"We must talk."

"Not here. HE might see us," knowing her teacher saw and knew everything, but not knowing how, she didn't want him to know how torn her soul was. She cared for her teacher, she was flattered that he felt so deeply for her, but she was still very confused. Perhaps she could make some sense of everything by talking it out with Raoul. But where could they talk? The roof! Of course!

"Not here, Come, to the roof!"

They rushed up the stairs to the roof, the one place Christine felt the Phantom would not go and where she could speak openly with Raoul. After all, all she knew of the Phantom was that he lived and lurked in the dark passages of the opera house. She had no idea that he often ventured out into the world outside the opera house. In her mind, the roof was a safe place.

It was dark, but the full moon lit the rooftop as if it were day, and a light snow was falling. She drew her cloak around her fo warmth after closing the door behind her.

"Why have you brought me here?" Raoul asked, concern and confusion in his eyes.

"It's the only place I could think of where he wouldn't see or hear us," she replied.

"Who are you speaking of?"

"The Phantom of the Opera," she replied matter of factly.

"Christine, there IS no Phantom of the Opera! It's just a story, a made up tale. What happened to Carlotta and Buquet had nothing to do with any Phantom!"

She shook her head in vehement denial, "It's not a fable, Raoul. I've _seen_ the Opera Ghost, and he has been my teacher. What I thought was the Angel of Music sent by father is the Opera Ghost. I'm sure of it!"

She then related the strange adventure she'd had the night of the gala, after he'd left her in Carlotta's dressing room: of the wedding dress and look-alike mannequin, of the tiny look she had of her teacher's face. She began trembling at the memory of the Phantom's abrupt anger over her removing his mask.

"When I think of how volatile his temper can be, it's not hard to believe that he is the Opera Ghost, " she continued. "Look at how easily he removed Carlotta from the stage! And how can we be sure he didn't cause Buquet to stumble into a rope and hang himself! And yet, he has given me so much; he taught my voice to sing! And his eyes, those eyes that burn; eyes that both threaten and adore! How am I supposed to find a love-- to GIVE a love to someone of such absolute contradictions?"

"You can't, and you shouldn't have to," was Raoul's reply. "You don't have to marry him, just because he wants you to. **_I'm_** here now, and I will keep you safe."

Christine walked away from the arms reaching out to her. How she wanted Raoul to hold her, and to make her feel safe! But dare she let herself love him, when someone else who could turn from warm and gentle to cold and cruel in the blink of an eye had made no secret of his desire for her?

"I don't know, Raoul. I want to believe there's a chance for us, but I'm afraid."

"There's no need to be afraid, " he consoled her. "I'm here. There's no reason to fear anything – or anyone – any longer." He drew her into his arms, and kissed her, first gently, then with a growing passion. To his delight, she returned that kiss with equal fervor and when he twirled her in his arms, the rose she'd carried felt to the snow covered roof.

Erik stared sightlessly at the panoramic picture of Paris spread below him. The winter wind whipped at his cloak. Now what was he going to do? Christine knew that he was more than just her teacher, she now knew that he was the Opera Ghost, the malevolent apparition that haunted the Opera Populaire. Even from a distance, he could tell that the realization had filled her with terror. He regretted not being more careful about disguising his voice. "Old fool!" he berated himself, "You can't keep slipping up like that!"

He knew exactly how all his plans had gone awry; the moment Christine removed that wretched mask from his face! Had she not been so damn curious, and he not so complacent to think she wouldn't want to see what was hidden behind the mask, everything would have worked out as he'd anticipated!

Now, he was letting himself become careless, and that carelessness would be his undoing if he weren't more careful! He had to gain control of himself, and of the situation, or all would be lost.

He knew that bedlam still reigned on the stage, with police called to investigate the death of Buquet. He knew he'd have to remain on the roof for awhile, until the tumult ended and the authorities were gone. He had no doubt, despite his carelessness, that the authorities would determine Buquet's hanging had been accidental.

He heard footsteps and voices at the door to the rooftop. 'Who on Earth? No one EVER bothers coming here, especially not at night! Could it be the police, searching for me? Did someone witness Buquet's murder and finger me?' He hid in the shadows of one of the statues, warily watching the door, his mind racing over different escape scenarios.

He was both relieved and happy to see Christine step out onto the rooftop, but the joy was diminished by the sight of the Vicomte de Chagny following her. He watched, and listened, as they spoke of him.

It soon became obvious that not only had Christine connected him to the mysterious 'Opera Ghost', but that she had a tremendous fear of him as well. The falsehoods told by Buquet and others of the Phantom of the Opera had built themselves into something dangerous in her mind, and he could see that the idea that he wanted her to share his life held great terror for her.

His heart broke at this knowledge; he moaned in pain and anguish, "Christine!" That moaned whisper of her name carried itself to her and she reacted to it.

He moved deeper into the shadows, and clung to a small seed of hope that she still felt something for him, because she still clutched the black ribboned rose. But that small bit of hope was crushed when she dropped the rose to accept the Vicomte's fierce, protective and possessive embrace. An embrace which led to a very passionate kiss between the pair along with proclamations of love for each other.

Hot tears sliced a frozen path on his face under the mask as the Vicomte whirled her around in his arms, their excited voices making all kinds of plans. Plans that did not include him. They left the rooftop, but the rose remained where Christine had dropped it, a blood red denial in the newly fallen snow.

Erik left the safety of the shadows to retrieve the rose. Tears continued to pour from his eyes as he held the still warm rose to his lips. Despite all attempts to contain them, great sobs shook him.

He could hear their excited voices fade in the distance and the pain of the moment made him clench his fists. The rose crumbled into pieces in his grasp, just as his heart was falling into pieces at her betrayal. .

"I gave you my music, made your soul take wing. And now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me. He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing. . ."

Unable to contain his sadness and anger any longer, he raced to the angel statue overlooking the entrance to the opera house and shouted a desperate curse to the heavens, "You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!"

End of the first section.


End file.
